


The Baker Street boys

by StormLeviosa



Series: The spy and the consulting detective [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Baskerville Research Facility, Canon Compliant, Carl Powers - Freeform, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Explains things that don't need explaining, Fireworks, Headcanon, John Watson in Afghanistan, John Watson's Blog, John is a Saint, John's psychosomatic limp, London, MI5 security, Moriarty Returns, New Year's Eve, PTSD John, Poor Lestrade, Science Experiments, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson Friendship, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is a grammar nazi, Sherlock isn't the only smart one, Snow, Sort Of, Spoilers may occur, Tags May Change, Taxis, and don't meet the president, never go on a car journey with Sherlock Holmes, the beast from the east, the boys go to America, they are actual children, why is British weather weird?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2019-01-06 13:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12212673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormLeviosa/pseuds/StormLeviosa
Summary: A series of oneshots based on headcanons, starting with how Greg met and got to know Sherlock. Will be updated periodically, depending on time. Will write based from prompts and requests. Cross-posted on fanfiction.net





	1. Chapter 1- or, how Greg met Sherlock through the man with the umbrella

**Author's Note:**

> As seen in the summary (which is really bad), this is a series of oneshots based on headcanons or headcanons which are now canon. This first chapter explains how Greg met Sherlock, the collaboration between him, Mycroft, and Mrs Hudson, and why Sherlock has a flatmate. The 'Delaney Case' mentioned in chapter 1 is entirely fictional, in case anyone was interested enough to look it up. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome and helpful. Hope you enjoy.

Greg Lestrade had never met the man named Mycroft Holmes before he walked into Scotland Yard. He had been promoted to Detective Inspector just over a year ago, had gained the respect of his subordinates for being unafraid of getting his hands dirty when necessary, and was now comfortable in the office at the Yard. Mycroft Holmes disrupted that comfort. He swept in with a dignified grace only seen in nobility and made straight for his office. Greg swallowed nervously. This man meant trouble, he was certain.

 

The door to his office closed with a sharp ‘click’. Greg stood before the man with the pressed suit and held out a hand. “Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr…” He shifted his umbrella to his left hand and shook with only the slightest curl of his lip which didn’t quite hide a sneer of disgust. “Holmes, Mycroft Holmes.” He had the smooth, elegant voice of a politician and Greg had the distinct impression he was being spoken down to. “I require a long-term favour from your department, Detective Inspector. My brother, Sherlock, needs… stimulation. The best way for that to happen is for you to agree to my terms.” 

 

It was laid out clearly, methodically. Greg would, on occasion, allow Mr Holmes’s brother to work alongside the Yard on cases. The young man was ‘far too clever for his own good’, Mr Holmes (“call me Mycroft”) had told him in what seemed a rare fit of brotherly compassion. Hesitant to make a decision, Greg chewed his bottom lip and ran a hand through his short hair. Then came the final move. “Do you remember the Delaney Case, about twenty years ago?” Of course he remembered the Delaney Case! Every detective worth his salt knew about the Delaney Case; he’d studied it at Uni, never really got a fix on who had done it (it was unsolved for a reason) but he knew about it. “It was the gardener. Sherlock watched the news reports, deduced what happened and left an anonymous tip at the police station. It didn’t do any good in the end: no policeman ever believes the word of a child.” He shook his head sadly, as if lamenting the ineptitude of the police force. Greg ground his teeth. “He was ten at the time. Of course now he’s in a bit of a rut: cocaine, heroin and the like. But his mind is still just as sharp.” 

 

The next week, Greg was contacted for the second time by Mycroft Holmes. Umbrella firmly in his grasp, he requested that Greg come with him to see an old woman living in the high end part of London. Mycroft explained that his brother would be renting the flat next to hers. Mrs Hudson was a sweet, grandmotherly lady but Greg had the distinct impression that she was much fiercer than she appeared. She also had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Her insistence on the elusive Sherlock having a flatmate was entirely understandable, in Greg’s opinion. Mycroft disagreed. He claimed that no one ‘normal’ would be able to cope with his behaviour. His brother was too abrasive, he claimed, too conceited. He was over-powered eventually by Mrs Hudson’s acerbic, fiery temper and the cool, imperious sneer was back. But Sherlock would have a flatmate; Greg would run ‘drugs busts’ every few weeks and Sherlock would be allowed on cases the Yard could not solve. Mycroft promised to keep him out of trouble if it ever came down to it (“I occupy a minor position in the British government, no matter what my brother says on the contrary”) and that was that.

 

He met the man less than a week later. Straight out of rehab, looking a bit like a floppy-haired spaniel, he came by the morgue while Greg was conducting a murder investigation. He simply pushed Molly aside and told Greg how the man died, who did it, and why without knowing even the bare bones of the case. He saw Molly’s barely hidden adoration and groaned inwardly. Mycroft Holmes was going to be the death of him.


	2. Chapter 2- or, why there is always a taxi on Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As stated in the title: this chapter explains the enigma that is the London taxi service and how they are always there.  
> Contains an OC but it's for plot purposes so...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry!! I haven't updated in ages; I totally forgot and I've been rushed off my feet with school and a load of other things. I will try to update more regularly but I don't know how likely that is (A-levels are the worst).  
> Don't forget to leave your comments below!

Dave never wanted to be a cabby. When he was young and still believed in everything, he wanted to be an astronaut, to see the stars and the planets. As a teenager, more cynical and wayward, he dreamt of being a doctor, of putting broken people back together (that lasted until his science class did their first dissection). By the time he finished with school, he was wandering aimless, sixteen and unemployed and penniless. He got a job in a shop, was fired less than a year later. Got another job and learnt to drive, renewed his dreams: he could go anywhere, do anything, now he could travel. But he was a Londoner, born and bred. The city had its claws in him and hugged him close, refusing to let him leave. He became a cabby. Travelling the streets he knew so well with a wealth of interesting people was a job he found himself well suited to. Then his boss rang.

 

“Hey, Dave. How ‘you doing?” That was unusual in the first place. The boss never rang in the middle of the day, never called him by name. “I have a proposition for you.” He hummed contemplatively, asking for him to continue. “A guy rang earlier, proper posh, wants to know if I can do a rotation for him. Offered a tonne of money for it too. You in?” He barely considered it. “Yes.”

 

He meets their benefactor’s nut-case brother a week later. His cab is one of ten that will work on rotation around Baker Street, at the beck and call of both an elitist politician and an ex-druggie ‘consulting detective’. It wasn’t exactly rewarding work. The mental one rarely remembered to pay, waved a flippant hand when called out on it. All their money came from their benefactor and although the pay was good, Dave wondered occasionally if it was worth it. 

 

When John Watson moved in, it got better. Pay came regularly (the ex-army surgeon always remembered when his flatmate didn’t). He could almost afford a mortgage now, could ask his girlfriend to marry him. He kept his job. The police dropped by, he took the pair to the station, to a restaurant. He could hear them talking and the freaky brother rattling off a stream of information he couldn’t have known, heard the laughter shared only between friends. He had hope.

 

He hadn’t noticed the fake cab driver. His only consolation was that neither of the two brothers nor Dr Watson had either so it wasn’t entirely his fault- he simply wasn’t that intelligent. Sherlock had exited the flat and got straight into the taxi waiting at the door, speeding off with no real reason. Dr Watson had left in a frantic wringing of hands and a blurted “follow him,” before settling in the back seat and fingering his coat pocket nervously. 

 

Things happened that night and Dave didn’t exactly pretend that he had no idea what they were. Dr Watson had fled his cab and bounded up the flight of stairs into the nearest building, his limp forgotten. He stayed where he had parked, lights and engine off, and listened. Only minutes later, though it seemed a lifetime, there was a bang. Had Dr Watson had a gun? He wasn’t certain but he was a military man so it wasn’t unlikely. A police car came screaming around the corner, lights flashing, sirens wailing. The two men exited different building, Dr Watson stuffing something back in his pocket, Sherlock appearing pale and shaken, if it was possible for such an aloof man to be shaken. The inspector approached him with a phone to his ear and minutes later an ambulance appeared too. The orange blankets were brought out and Sherlock appeared angered by it before stalking over to where Dr Watson stood by the cordone. They walked back to where Dave was parked and he took them home in silence.

 

He never told them he knew what had happened on that night long ago. The rotating taxi drivers were more protective of their charges perhaps, and more than happy to work for less pay. 221B had become famous. Sherlock Holmes was a celebrity and they worked for him (technically they worked for his brother but he was even more of a pretentious bastard than Sherlock and wasn’t nearly as well-known). Dave may not have planned to be a cabby, but he wouldn’t change it for the world.


	3. Chapter 3- or, why John always cleans the kettle first

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John would definitely clean everything before using it with Sherlock doing weird experiments in the kitchen.  
> Research for this is sketchy at best- I looked up bits but I'm not really a scientist (says the student taking Biology and Chemistry A-level) so correct me if any of it is wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early because I don't want to do work and I feel bad for not updating for ages.   
> This is the first, and currently only, crossover chapter (does it count as a crossover if it's really just a cameo).  
> May not update for a while after this because I have a lot to do and not enough time to do it in but I hope you enjoy this short chapter in the meantime.  
> Please leave your thoughts in the comments!  
> I own nothing.

John knew Sherlock conducted science experiments in the kitchen. There were often dismembered body parts in the fridge or microscope slides scattered across the counters. The part of him that remembers university lab work shudders at the mess he made and the part of him that is a doctor rushes to clear it away because ‘someone could get hurt, Sherlock, honestly.’ It makes him uncomfortable every time. Sherlock continues on his merry way, mixing all the things that shouldn’t be mixed.

 

It had been a hard day at the surgery and all he wanted was a cup of tea. He didn’t register the smell as he entered the kitchen, paid no heed to the used test tubes in the sink, just walked straight in and filled the kettle. The lid of the tin clattered loudly as he removed a tea bag and he winced at the sudden spike of a headache forming. Retrieving milk and sugar, he poured the now boiled water into the cup and sighed at the relaxing odour. Tea was all he needed after a long day. Leaving his tea to steep for a few minutes, John attempted to pack away some of Sherlock’s used equipment- a beaker, a test tube, pipette, a scalpel filched from his first aid kit, and numerous bits and pieces of microscope. Finally he removed the tea bag, added just enough milk and sugar to make it perfect, and sat down for seemingly the first time since he left the flat that morning. 

 

Raising the warm mug to his lips, he was surprised to find Sherlock suddenly in front of him, swiping the mug from his hands. “Sherlock!” he yelped in shock as scalding liquid spilled across his hands. His flatmate did not apologise although he explained his actions, looking slightly abashed. “I was experimenting with hemlock, John! Couldn’t you smell it? I boiled the extract in the kettle to examine its effects on the kidneys, all case relevant of course.” John shook his head in astonishment. He had almost died. “Could you not have warned me?” he asked, exasperatedly. Sherlock, in all his unrepentant glory, stalked off to continue experimenting.

 

He didn’t bring it up again until almost a month later when Alex and Mrs Hudson had come round for tea. The water he added to the kettle had a strange cast to it but he put it down to limescale and water hardness. When the tea was ready, he carried it over on a tray with a few of Mrs Hudson’s biscuits. Alex, ever the suspicious one, sniffed his carefully before taking the tiniest of sips. He put his cup down and looked alarmed. “John, we can’t drink this.” John must have looked offended because he continued with an explanation. “I don’t know how, but it’s full of aspirin. If we drank it we’d overdose and die.” Eye’s widening, he came to a realisation. Sherlock had been using large amounts of glycerol and different organic acids; he should have known he was up to something.

 

He knew confronting his friend would do no good: Sherlock was set in his ways and more obstinate than a mule. John would simply have to change his routine. It became common practise for John to wash out the kettle every day. Then, after a few near misses, before every cup of tea. It was a nightmare but it was worth the extra effort if it meant living another day. 


	4. Chapter 4- or, Mycroft has a security problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary gave Mycroft advice on MI5 security but he was definitely asking for a reason and looked unbelievably smug- cue this chapter. Mycroft has a hand in Military Intelligence Sector 5 and needs to have words with whoever made their security.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a chapter I always meant to write and it's actually referenced (vaguely) in 'The Spy in 221B), hence the crossover and the '-mentioned' tags. I love Mycroft's character and I don't think he is appreciated enough so I got to explore a bit here.  
> A brief warning- I am experimenting with different writing styles and have therefore used different tenses. This is purely 'for effect', as the Exam Board like to say, and is intentional. Let me know what you think in the comments.

 

 

“What do you think of MI5 security?” There was a smugness to Mycroft’s tone that he couldn’t hide if he tried. Sherlock had long ago deduced that his pride would be his downfall and rolled his eyes exasperatedly. He loved his brother very, very deep down but did he have to be quite so obvious? Mary, as always, proved herself more than Mycroft’s match as her fingers flew across the touchscreen of her phone. “I think it would be a good idea.” He almost laughed at the expression on Mycroft’s face.

 

The truth is that Mycroft was rather proud of MI5’s tech department; or he had been before the merger with MI6. Now his prized computer whizzes were working under the eccentric Smithers and although he could see their reasoning, it was something he had fought ardently against. Smithers was fantastically ingenuitive, making all kinds of gadgets and helpful aids for agents of both branches, but he was not nearly as good with computers. Mycroft’s head of IT had been lost with the merger and now their internet security was shot full of holes and sinking into the quagmire of external hackers waiting to seize Military Intelligence’s secrets. He knew it. Mrs Jones, acting Head of MI6 (no one had seen Alan Blunt for months), knew it. But there was nothing they could do.

 

Back when Mycroft was a young man, new to politics and the back-stabbing that occurs within the parties, he had watched in carefully masked horror as a green agent was sent home in a box. He wasn’t really supposed to be there but he was working alongside the Defense Minister to create a new policy with regards to the looming terrorist threat. The agent had died with a technician screeching in his ear about how to defuse a bomb, the agent’s earpiece had broken, and the bomb exploded. The dying cries of the young man and the sobs of the technician haunted him for weeks. When he requested the official reports, what he uncovered made him switch positions. No more agents would die with him in charge.

 

He remained acquaintances with his old political foes, of course. He worked closely with the likes of Lady Smallwood on National Security and the Defence Budget (all important enough to require mental capitalisation). But his true work remained secret: it would not do to have his project leaked to the press where any Tom, Dick or Harry could hear about it. Code rattled out at what would be an alarming rate for any ordinary person. But Mycroft was not _ordinary_ and he had always had a flair for languages.

 

Two weeks after the Moriarty Incident, Mycroft will walk into MI6 headquarters and, instead of heading up to Mrs Jones’ office, will traipse down several flights of stairs to Smithers’ realm. He will terrify several interns, traumatise the newest graduates working in the labs of R&D, and finally find the master huddled over a desk with plans strewn over like snow. A young man will be sitting on a nearby counter, swinging his legs like a child. On that day, his hair will be brown but Mycroft knows him already, has read the files about Alexander Rider, and knows his hair is blonde. He will fall silent as Mycroft approaches, narrowing his eyes suspiciously, and that will be what alerts Smithers to his presence. He will turn from his task, rake an oily hand through his hair and waddle forward to shake his hand. Rider will glare as Mycroft wrinkles his nose in distaste. They will talk about the projects currently in progress, the latest results of field tests, then Mycroft will bring up the Moriarty Incident. Smithers will have the grace to look slightly sheepish. Alex will chuckle and sing Mary’s praises. Mycroft will suggest they employ a computer expert. “This must not happen again.” Smithers will nod and write it down in his illegible chicken scratch. Mycroft will give that satisfied little nod he inherited from Mother and turn smartly on his heels to leave. “Mrs Jones has chocolate cake, if you’re headed that way.” He will wish he had never met Agent Alex Rider.


	5. Chapter 5- or, why Sherlock plays the violin early in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As in the title, really.  
> This is another idea of mine that I quite like because it is exactly how I imagine their relationship to be when we're not watching.  
> It's really short. Sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I think that, while they are 'soulmates' (and I use that term in the loosest way possible) it is platonic because, in my mind, Sherlock is asexual or somewhere on that spectrum. This is canon, or heavily implied, in the books just in case anyone has read them. And it's Asexuality Awareness Week this week so hello to all my fellow Ace friends out there!
> 
> I love getting reviews and hearing your thoughts so please review or even send me a message privately.

At first he wasn’t sure what had woken him. The room was just as dark as when he fell asleep, the damp heat just as heavy, but he was panting for breath, sheets tangled around him, and he could feel sweat trickling down his face and back. He couldn’t tell if it was due to the heat or something more sinister. In the darkness of the room, even his curtains swaying in the limp breeze were dangerous. At the back of his mind was the remains of a nightmare (he could still hear the shouts of his men, the groans of a dying man, the crack of a sniper rifle. Pain, and he was on the floor, being dragged away; had to help his patient, had to get away) and he wondered absently if that was what had woken him: in the summer they were always worse. Sherlock thought the hot weather was a subconscious reminder of his days in Afghanistan, where midday brought baking sun and temperatures upwards of 35℃ even when the nights were cooler. 

 

He steadied his breathing and looked around him. Nothing out of the ordinary. His window was open to let in an almost non-existent draft and the curtains trembled slightly with its attempted entrance. He would have welcome its cool caress. The streetlights illuminated the picture on his bedside table: a photo from his army days back before they had all been picked off one by one. The faded smiles and camaraderie (His arms were slung around their shoulders; Eddie had been telling a joke the passing of time had erased) brought a reluctant grimace to his face and he turned away from it, switching on the lamp. He was unlikely to get anymore sleep now, particularly not with the music coming from who knows where. Was that a violin? Who plays the violin at four in the morning? His nightmare was affecting him more than normal, it seemed. He couldn’t tell where the music came from, its slow, lilting cadence dancing through the still and stifling air.

 

By the time reality caught up with him, he had pulled on a dressing gown and was downstairs making tea. That violin was still going and he slumped in his comfy armchair, cradling his hot mug, before noticing the figure in the window. Shrouded in shadows, Sherlock moved the bow across the strings with flowing grace. John thought perhaps his eyes were closed and he swayed slightly with the song. With a final dramatic flourish, the piece ended and John clapped tiredly, stifling a yawn. Sherlock smiled sadly at him: his brilliant mind had already deduced why John was up at such an outrageous time. Tucking the violin back under his chin, he began a new piece: a rousing gigue that had him tapping his foot. He was smiling fully by the end, the remnants of his nightmare long chased away.


	6. Chapter 6- or, John's experience with Sherlock the grammar Nazi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock knows a lot about grammar and isn't afraid to let John (and the world) know it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I haven't posted in ages! I meant to, I promise, but life keeps getting in the way (university applications take a stupid amount of time). This one is also really short but I love it. I'm almost exactly like Sherlock in this situation which may be why. If enough people want it, I will also post the blog post that goes with this chapter (the case in America) so please leave comments below.

“You need a comma there.” John sighed in exasperation and clicked back to correct his mistake. “You happy now?” he asked Sherlock who rolled his eyes and stalked back to his experiment in the kitchen. Five minutes later, he was back and hovering at John’s shoulder like an overly-pedantic guardian angel. Every so often he would snort at something particularly hyperbolic or tut at a spelling error but he never articulated precisely what the problem was. It annoyed John to no end.

 

His blog was steadily becoming one of the most read online sources in London. The people enjoyed the excitement of his stories, the mystery and suspense of their cases, the humour that came with odd little anecdotes from life on Baker Street. Sherlock despised it. There had been at least one instance in which he had vented about it in the comments section, much to the amusement of his avid fans, and their banter had been the cause of several blazing rows that Mrs Hudson had dubbed ‘domestics’. He wouldn’t stop just because of Sherlock though.  He continued to type. This particular case had taken them out of London to York, investigating some rather vague rumours of a Jack the Ripper-like serial killer. Sherlock solved it in a matter of hours, of course, but it was still of some interest to the public. _Sherlock long ago decided he would only take cases rated at least a 6, though what the scale is I'm not quite sure. This particular case barely made it on the radar at first- it was only a 4 and mostly speculation- but then an old acquaintance of Mrs H went missing and all signs pointed to the murderer we'd been hearing about so Sherlock decided to go on up there._  Sherlock was, of course reading over his shoulder again as he typed. The clacking of the keyboard acting as a siren's call to him. He snorted at John's style, or lack of it as he was fond of implying. This had been going on since he had moved in all those years ago and John had had enough.

 

**“** Will you stop reading over my shoulder if I take time off work so you can go on that American case you're pretending not to be interested in?” Sherlock huffed out a sigh and stepped back, arms crossed. “Honestly, John, you don't have to bribe me. I'll leave you alone if you want.” Closing the lid of his laptop, John twisted in his seat to look at him. “No, don't start this again. I'm not giving in just because you guilt-tripped me; it's not happening.” Sherlock was trying so hard not to look hurt it was laughable. John turned back to his laptop wearily. He really needed to get this case written up. Mere minutes later, Sherlock was back again. John slammed the lid shut and stood to face him. “Right. I'm taking time off, we're going on that case and you're going to stop bothering me.” He picked up the phone and dialed the number, ignoring Sherlock's  whining. “John you don't have to. I'm not interested in it, really.” He booked the time off.


	7. Chapter 6 (Part 2)- or, Sherlock and John go to America

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the blog post mentioned in chapter 6. It details a small excerpt of what happened on the American case and John's thoughts on the matter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've attempted to get the formatting as close to what it is on the BBC website as possible. I also researched things to do with American security services but if I've got anything wrong, let me know. The accent thing actually happened to us! When I was a baby, we lived in the States and my mum (who's British) says everyone loved her accent. In the UK, it's the opposite. I can, on occasion, do an American accent and people think it's awesome.
> 
> Please leave a review. Hope you enjoy!  
> (edited 1st December 2017 in response to a comment by Katherine Keetch)

 

12 May 

** The American Dream **

 

We originally received the email about a month ago from someone very high up in United States security. Sherlock rolled his eyes and said it was ‘boring’ and ‘barely a 4’. It was only two weeks later that he finally decided it was worth looking into. I’m still not sure if it was his idea or a certain government official who happens to be his brother. From here on in, I don’t know how much I can tell you. We had to sign the Espionage Act (a bit like our Official Secrets Act) before we could do anything. Although, from Sherlock’s current rate of texting, Mycroft will soon know all. It’s a welcome relief from him reading this over my shoulder, though.

 

That was the deal. I would go with him to America and he would stop correcting everything I type. He seems to be sticking to it, for now. We arrived at about 10am local time at Washington Dulles International Airport which was an enormous building of glass and white painted metal. We were greeted by members of the secret service and, after Sherlock finally convinced border security that he was allowed in the country (the idiot forgot his visa), we were escorted to a flashy car like something out of an action movie. The car took us straight to Capitol Hill where we met various officials whose names I can’t remember and can’t tell you anyway. We were briefed on the case and the info they already had. Sherlock barely listened but I took notes. He managed, somehow, to refrain from insulting anyone too important. Then we set off to do research.

 

We didn’t get much sightseeing done but we saw the Capitol building and the Pentagon up close. We didn’t meet the president, unfortunately, because he was ‘too busy’. Like Trump is ever actually busy. The civilians were captivated by our accents and were constantly asking us to talk, say strange things to them. It was bizarre. They seemed nice enough.

 

The case itself involved a lot of computer work, some coding, some physics, and an imprisoned Russian spy. It really wasn’t my kind of thing and I felt like a loose end for most of the investigation. Sherlock seemed to be enjoying himself. He got to boss around a lot of men in suits and practised some Russian he had picked up on the spy. My main role was to stop him from either getting himself shot or insulting someone so badly we got kicked out of the country. It wasn’t easy when he insisted on calling the head of the FBI a ‘vacant-minded moron with clear anger management issues.’ We did finally solve the case and the information we dug up was… interesting. I can’t tell you any of it, of course. But I’m sure it be all over the news soon enough. Now let’s see how long it takes for him to complain about something.

** 5 Comments **

This is brilliant! Giving those Americans a taste of their own medicine, right, Sherlock?

Jacob Sowersby

I'm sure you were very helpful, John. I'm glad you boys had a good time.

Mrs Hudson

Honestly, John. We were never in danger of being 'kicked out of the country' and if the director of the FBI can't take a bit of criticism he shouldn't be in charge.

Sherlock Holmes

Is that seriously the best response you could come up with? You've been scowling at your phone screen for the better part of half an hour.

John Watson

Well, I could comment on your lack of narrative style, poor taste in structure and overly mundane language but Mrs Hudson says that's rude.

Sherlock Holmes

 


	8. Chapter 7- or, why Sherlock doesn't have friends (he just has one)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock, as we all know, doesn't have friends - except for John (and Lestrade, and Mrs Hudson, and Molly and a tonne of other people). But how did he get to that point? Very handwavy canon here and I'm not sure where we are in the timeline (definitely pre-season 4 though).

Sherlock’s first friend (that he remembered) was a boy his own age called Carl. They met at school, both outcasts in their own way, and Sherlock latched onto the sickly kid who didn’t laugh at his brilliance. He did laugh, of course, everyone laughed but Carl laughed with him, laughed at others’ stupidity, never  _ at  _ him. And that made all the difference. Young Sherlock was not cold and aloof. Young Sherlock didn’t believe ‘caring is a disadvantage.’ Young Sherlock wanted friends, companionship. Mycroft hated that about him. He hated that he was no longer the only brilliant one and that his little brother was actually smarter than his peers. It usurped his position  in the household. 

 

Carl was on the swim team. It was the one thing that he was better than Sherlock at, his own form of brilliance (and Sherlock only made friends with the brilliant). In the water, his eczema didn’t play up, his skin was soft and smooth, he could move with the fluidity of a salmon. Then he died. There was so much about his death that didn’t add up but Sherlock was, for the first time, too stricken with grief to think. By the time he could use his brain again, the case was closed. The police didn’t take advice from little boys anyway. In a fit of desperate despair, he went to Mycroft and, howling in anguish at the injustice, begged him to teach him not to feel. Mycroft obliged. He didn’t care; but his brother was disturbing his work. Caring is not an advantage.

 

Mycroft’s instructions took root and Sherlock cultured it into an impenetrable hedge of thorns. He was prickly and distant then. University passed in a blur of idiotic professors, even more idiotic students, arrogant roommates and those who tried and failed to be his friends - then tried to bully him into submission. He turned to drugs, cocaine, heroin, the chemicals to help him focus. He spent money like it was water, wrote his lists for Mycroft, dedicated himself to his work. The bright and brilliant flame of a boy was burning out.

 

His meeting with John was unexpected. Mike Stamford worked at St. Barts and of course he had talked about his ‘mate’ from medical school, returning from war. Sherlock considered it inane chatter and didn’t listen any further. Then John Watson walked into the lab. “Bit different to in my day.” He borrowed his phone, deduced him, saw the war on his skin, in his eyes, in that damned leg of his. He offered him the other room of the flat. But he wouldn’t be friends: Sherlock didn’t have friends.

 

John shot a man the second night they knew each other and Sherlock realised he had seriously misjudged the situation. They were growing attached. He couldn’t get attached. Caring is not an advantage. He couldn’t save him if he cared. He didn’t care; he didn’t care. He couldn’t care. The Black Lotus kidnapped John and Sarah and he had to pretend that his heart hadn’t stopped when he saw them tied up like that. He didn’t care. Moriarty started to play the game and he knew that they were in more danger than they had ever been. He didn’t care. John was kidnapped again but he wasn’t to know that. Was John ‘Moriarty’ after all this time? He didn’t care (he knew the pain of betrayal was visible on his face). But no, his voice was too flat, he was reading, there were snipers aimed at them. Moriarty appeared. He didn’t care, couldn’t allow himself to care. Moriarty was walking away. He threw himself at John to get the jacket off and in the shaky absence of adrenaline that followed they shared secret smiles and hidden reassurances. He didn’t have to voice it, didn’t ever have to admit it to himself. John knew he cared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may not be able to post anything for a while as I have mock exams, then A-levels in the spring and the newspaper needs editing but I will try to update around Christmastime. The next installment in this series will be posted around the same time. I have three chapters written and being edited currently.  
> Don't forget to leave kudos and comments!  
> Wishing you all the best for the winter.


	9. Chapter 8- or, why John doesn't like fireworks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John doesn't like fireworks (for fairly obvious reasons) so the London New Year's celebrations are... an experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my second update today, how amazing am I? (if you're looking for my other update, check out my other ongoing story: 'Alethiology').
> 
> The following is a chapter related to chapter 5 but is essentially a new year gift and an apology for having nothing to contribute at Christmas.
> 
> Thanks so much for your continuing support. If you want to see more of my Sherlock headcanons (which may or may not make their way into this story) check out my all new tumblr account. I use the same username as this (stormleviosa) so it shouldn't be too hard to find.
> 
> Enjoy the chapter and don't forget to leave a review.

John chose to live in London for a reason. One of these was that it was, obviously, a bustling city, always moving, always heaving with new people and new places that meant adventure was just around the corner. It was adventure that he craved. Another reason was that London was also undeniably dreary. It's weather could always use improvement from the perpetual rain that seemed to fall in unavoidable sheets. The grey concrete jungle was as colourless as John's depressed mind upon his return from war. It was simultaneously so far removed from Afghanistan as to be unrecognisable and inexplicably similar in a way John couldn't quite place. It was perfect for his convalescence.

One thing that living in a city made sure of was that, while loud noise was a constant, loud noises like gunshots (or the bird scarers that were so popular on the farms around John's childhood home) and fireworks were few and far between. This was a pleasant surprise that he had discovered after living in London for only a few weeks. He could deal with car horns and drunken yelling as long as no one fired a gun (he ignored the gun he left in his drawer and the statistics that stated London was at an alarmingly high risk of a terror attack). The first time Sherlock fired a gun at the wall in their Baker Street flat, John had flinched and covered his head with his arms in a half remembered, half instinctive attempt to protect himself from enemy gunfire. Sherlock had apologised and the matter wasn't brought up again.

John was dozing in his armchair by the fireplace, dreaming lazily of adventures with Sherlock. The TV droned on in the background as a soothing backing track to his fantasies while Sherlock himself did who knows what. It was peaceful. There was no need to worry about anything in particular; dates could be forgotten and blog posts could be put on hold. He was running across a field, Sherlock ahead and the shadowy figure of a criminal ahead of him. They were almost upon him, the case was almost closed… Boom! He jerked awake with a start. Where was the bomb? Was there a shooter as well? There was a muted crash as he leapt to his feet and stared around wildly. Bang! He flinched and covered his head. He was a doctor; he had to protect his troops. Crackle! He reached for his waistband. Gun. Where was his gun?

A noise was making its way through the sleepy fog that had descended on his brain. A voice was speaking slowly to him. "You are in London. The address is 221B Baker Street." The soothing strains of the violin continued. Was that 'Auld Lang Syne' Sherlock was playing? For someone who hated sentiment and holidays, for someone who found such things 'hateful' and 'dull', he was surprisingly accommodating of the normal person's need to celebrate. Slowly, the world came back to him. He was still in his flat, still in the living room. His laptop lay face down on the carpet. Sherlock was still playing the violin by the window, curtains pulled back. There were fireworks sparking behind the closed window. It was new Year's Eve and John was in London, his favourite city, watching a firework display. It was time to welcome in the new year.


	10. Chapter 9- or, why Lestrade doesn't have kids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The drive home from Baskerville was filled with revelations for Greg Lestrade. Mainly how much John and Sherlock acted like children.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have another chapter!  
> My exams are finally over so I have time to write this, more light-hearted, chapter that was planned ages ago but never written.  
> For those of you who may be wondering, there is no order to this at all and I write whatever comes into my head so if chapters correspond to episodes that occur in a different order, don't worry.  
> Your comments keep me going through the long, hard slog that is A-levels so please tell me what you think.

Baskerville had been a complete disaster of a case if Greg was completely honest. Sherlock had disappeared down to Devon and taken John with him and within a day or so he was getting a phone call from Mycroft. He should take a holiday and go to keep an eye on them. It was Holmes-speak for “I’m worried about him but I have no feelings so I can’t show that I’m worried. Can you do it for me?” Greg had rolled his eyes (which he was certain Mycroft knew) and told the man that he was too busy at Scotland Yard to take a break. It was a lie and not a particularly good one but he was relishing in a break from Sherlock’s incessant badgering. Mycroft’s antsiness aside, he was perfectly happy with his current situation. Why did he need a holiday?

 

Two days later, he found himself in Devon quite unsure how he got there. Some time in the early hours of the morning, he had a call from Mycroft. “He broke into Baskerville using my ID. Find him.” A half asleep Greg rolled out of bed - now far too large for just one person - and left. He arrived at the sole guesthouse in Baskerville just as Sherlock and John were returning from whatever adventure they had been on. Sherlock knew exactly what was going on. Greg helped with the case, as instructed, but the man still died. Now he had the unenviable job of driving the pair back to London. It was a four hour drive.

 

He wouldn’t have described the experience as  _ hell  _ exactly but it was a pretty close thing. Sherlock and John were arguing over something or other and from his experience it was usually something incredibly daft so he wasn’t really paying much attention. He had been there for most of it after all. “You drugged me!” Or not. He barely noticed they had been getting progressively louder the longer they argued unchecked and now he tuned in to the conversation. “It wouldn’t have killed you, John. You’re being ridiculous.” John threw his hands in the air in exasperation and retorted with a angry “I trusted you and you drugged me. Do you have any idea what that’s like?” Sherlock rolled his eyes although Greg saw him slump slightly in the mirror. This was hard on him, he knew. Sherlock didn’t consider many people his friend and John, despite no being his intellectual equal, was one of Sherlock’s closest. “You and your  _ feelings _ ,” he sneered. “The drug wasn’t in the sugar anyway. I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss.” Greg sighed. Sherlock was going about this all wrong and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it so he focused on the road instead. 

 

They were still arguing two hours later. “For the last time, the victim is not the killer in Cluedo. It’s impossible.” Sherlock mumbled something in return and John let out a yell of frustration. “I don’t care if it’s the only explanation. It’s against the rules of the game, you idiot!” Greg chuckled to himself at their argument. They seemed to be friends again and arguments like this were normal for the pair. Taking out his cell phone, he fired off a text to Mycroft, hoping there were no cameras to catch him at it. They were on the home stretch now.

 

“Bored!”

“Sherlock put the gun away.”

 

“But that just doesn’t happen, John.”

“It’s not impossible.”

“It’s never identical twins.”

 

By the time they were half an hour from London, Greg was ready to throw them out of the car. Since they had left Dartmoor, they had bickered non-stop and now he had the beginnings of a migraine and couldn’t bear the noise anymore. He pulled over at the next service station and got out to grab a coffee. He didn’t lock the car. When he got back, Sherlock was gone. “Where did he go?” John shrugged helplessly and waved a hand in the vague direction of the shop.  “He went to get something, nicotine patches maybe. He didn’t say.” Greg’s migraine was back with a vengeance.

 

With Sherlock finally back in the car again, they set off and the arguments began again. Caffeine was not a good enough stimulant for this. Next time, if there ever was a next time after this was over, he would request a pay rise or perhaps a prize of some sort. He remembered the stake of paperwork he had abandoned on his desk and groaned. John looked over in concern but Sherlock dragged him back into their argument. Greg had gotten to the end of his very long rope. “Now see this?” he cried, gesturing to the rather sheepish looking pair in the back. “This right here is why I’m never having kids!”  


	11. Chapter 10- or, why John has a limp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John had a limp at the beginning of A Study in Pink and never again after that. We know it was caused by a traumatic injury but why did he get over it?  
> This is just my theory on it,

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been far too long since I updated this! I'm really sorry about that but I've had exams and work and stress and I've been preoccupied with my other story ('Alethiology'). I've been meaning to write this one for ages and after the light-hearted chapter that I posted last time I decided now was the time. Hope I don't accidentally kill you from all the angst and feels (although it's not that bad, I think). A side note: Simon Annis is an actual person. He was part of the 2nd battalion of the Royal Fusiliers and died in 2009. It's the closest I could find to John's canonical regiment (the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers) but if you are related to him and would rather I change the name I will completely understand and edit as appropriate.
> 
> Check out my tumblr if you're interested (everything is really random and depends solely on what I feel like at that moment). My username is stormleviosa.
> 
> Don't forget to let me know what you think in your comments!

Sand was flying in all directions from the gunfire and he could barely see five feet ahead of him but he knew there was a patient somewhere that needed him. His mates called it his ‘doctor senses’ because somehow, inexplicably, he  _ always knew  _ and though it sometimes annoyed them they were thankful for it in situations like this. Everyone was yelling and firing in the general direction of the attack but with the wind and the obscured vision and the sleep deprivation that had plagued them of late there was little chance of them actually hitting anyone. John’s job was to find the injured soldier and fix him up enough that they could move him to a field hospital at Camp Bastion. It was not going to be easy. When was war ever easy?

 

It was one of his men because of course it was. He supposed that with him always on hand it was easy to forget that, at the end of the day, everyone was mortal and even the best doctors couldn’t bring dead men back to life. His mean were reckless and try as he might to stop them, they ran ahead heedless of any danger. He loved them for it but it did make his life difficult. His was one of the smaller companies so, as their captain, he made it his mission to learn their names. Fusilier Simon Annis, age 22. He’d been shot through the leg and was lying on the ground trembling in fear. He was so young. John’s heart ached as he knelt next to him, opening his case. His youth had translated perfectly into foolhardiness and now he’d been injured. He blocked out the surrounding chaos and focussed on his patient. He had to get him home, had to save him for his girlfriend. Sutures. He needed his suturing kit, threaded a needle and cleaned the wound with alcohol as his patient howled in agony. There was nothing but him and his patient and the wound. He packed the wound, mopping up blood, and cleaned it again. Was there time for a local? He wasn’t sure so he injected it anyway and left it as long as he could. Then he stitched it with firm and even sutures to close the wound. There was still so much blood. Where was it coming from? His hands were covered in it, drenched in scarlet blood. He couldn’t hear the gunfire, couldn’t see the sand whipping around them. There was a sudden, blinding pain in his shoulder and he gasped as he attempted one last stitch but his hand was shaking and his vision blurred. There was blackness creeping in. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t even see the wound anymore there was red, so much red, and then there was black as well and it overtook the red. Someone was yelling. The words were illegible and panicked. He crumpled to the ground. 

 

He returns to London, returns home, with a limp that requires a cane and a had that won’t stop shaking. There is nothing wrong with his leg or his hand. The psychologist says it’s psychosomatic. He remembers Annis’ face just before he got shot, the terror and hopelessness in the wideness of his eyes, and his leg twinges. He has to agree with the therapist. She suggests writing a blog to get his thoughts down and he agrees because he has nothing else to do. There is nothing fulfilling about sitting in front of a laptop with a blank document open. He types one word: ‘nothing.’ He tells Ella everything is fine. Everything is not fine.

  
He meets Sherlock and it’s like a door has opened into a new, brighter, life. Sherlock knows his limp is psychosomatic and that his shaky hand has nothing to do with PTSD but he doesn’t pity him anyway. In Sherlock’s eyes, he is no weaker than any of the other ordinary men and women he is forced to interact with on a daily basis. He has a purpose now and it isn’t until then that he realises that he has been drifting in an aimless sea of loss and melancholy. There is a case to solve. They eat (well, John eats and Sherlock watches, composed and cat-like) at Angelo’s which is the nicest meal John has had in ages even if he does have to convince the owner that he and Sherlock are  _ not  _ dating, thank you very much. He doesn’t get to finish his meal because Sherlock sees the cab they are supposed to be following and then they are running. John leaves his cane. His leg doesn’t hurt. Everything about his new situation is freeing: he no longer sees Simon Annis’ face every time he closes his eyes and his leg doesn’t hurt. He is doing something worthwhile, something special, and it is wonderful.


	12. Chapter 11- or, The Beast From the East

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A case in the snow inspired by current British weather patterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is just a little chapter inspired by all this snow we've had. The Beast From the East hit us in East Anglia hard and it's still snowing! I just got back from walking through knee deep snow drifts and getting the car stuck for the first time since moving to England 15 years ago. School is still open though which is frustrating everyone (teachers included). I've been writing this while watching the snow outside which is a very peaceful, beautiful atmosphere to write in. I hope if you live in the UK you stay safe, don't travel unless absolutely necessary, and stay warm.
> 
> Thanks for all your comments etc. I live for them so keep it up.
> 
> Enjoy this chapter.

It had been snowing steadily for two days and Sherlock was bored. Sherlock and boredom went together about as well chalk and cheese but with the blizzard still raging and no cases to work on there was really nothing to be done. He fiddled idly with the tuning pegs of his violin and flicked the page of his manuscript paper in preparation of his next notes. It screeched and he grimaced. Not that one then. He glanced out of the window. It was still snowing and he wondered why he ever thought otherwise. John was reading a newspaper but he looked up at the infernal screech from the violin. “Still bored?” Sherlock glared at him and made a show of rolling his eyes. He despised John's casual attitude, how he could block out everything and turn off his mind. “What made it so obvious?” One last shriek of the violin before he tossed down the bow and rested the violin with slightly more care on the stand. He began to pace. John looked exasperated and had put down the newspaper to rest his elbows on his knees. “We have an hour before I need to pick Rosie up from nursery. Can you last that long?” Sherlock huffed in indignation and John let out an ill-tempered little laugh. “Well read a book, moan about my blog, watch funny videos of cats on YouTube, whatever it is you do for fun.” Bored and angry, Sherlock went back to looking out of the window. 

 

It was not quite ten minutes later that Sherlock pulled his phone out and started typing a text to Lestrade. John was complaining again. “Hey! Lestrade told you quite clearly not to bother him today. He’s having enough issues without you coming along and scaring off the few people who could actually come in.” Sherlock didn’t care about those simple-minded dolts at Scotland Yard. He was bored and needed something to do so he sent the text anyway and tried to ignore the crestfallen look on John’s face. 

 

By the time John left to collect Rosie he had solved two cold cases and was on his third. There was something different about this one though, something rather disturbing. Perhaps it was because the victims were left alive but mutilated beyond belief, perhaps it was the random nature of the attacks, perhaps it was simply that he hadn’t solved it yet. It was a particularly gruesome case and he knew that Lestrade must have been agonising over it for years before now. Unfortunately there was no pattern to trace and no mistake made to lead him to this serial mutilator. He looked over the fifth set of crime scene photographs and deduced only that the attacker was male, about six feet tall, and exited the same way he entered: through the door. The only problem was that the door was locked from the inside. Someone the victim knew then, or someone they trusted. John came home with Rosie at that moment, caught a glimpse of the photos pinned to wall and began yelling. Something about Rosie being to young for this kind of thing? He wasn’t one hundred percent sure what John was actually saying (he was rarely sure what John was saying anyway, the words of normal people tended to go over his head) and therefore wasn’t listening. He stepped back and surveyed the complete set of images. There was the pattern. “Come along, John. We’re going on a case. Leave Rosie with Mrs Hudson.” He knew John would follow (he always protested, of course, but he always followed nonetheless). 

 

The snow was still falling thickly and he took a taxi like always, heedless of John at his side. “This is madness Sherlock. Complete and utter madness. Let’s go home.” He rattled off an address like he’d known it all his life though really it was a deduction which, to the moronic minds of everyone else, sounded more like an educated guess. There was nothing stylish or noble in his form of justice: just bloody hands and keen eyes, a cold heart and a quick mind. He left the taxi and watched the house from the street. They were lucky that despite the atrocious weather (a surprise only Britain could be toppled by) the postal service was still running. And there was the post van, trundling along with frantically waving windscreen wipers and a groaning engine. The postman had a knife in his pocket, he could see it clear as day through the folds of his scarlet jacket. Of course he had a package. Chances are the victim hadn’t ordered anything for weeks but postmen, like taxi drivers, are always trusted by the innocent, silly little secrets of the oblivious. John was shifting uncomfortably beside him. His shoulder bothered him in the cold but it was John’s fault for forgetting about that before he left. Time to face the beast.

 

The man had a thick eastern European accent but Sherlock didn’t hold that against him. The police might and the jury certainly would but that was a thought for another day. Sherlock was always surprised how blind people are to institutionalised bigotry and subliminal media indoctrination and it’s something he kept meaning to bring up with John or maybe Mycroft. It would slip out of his mind in a few hours, only to be brought to the forefront next time they were on a case like this one. Lestrade came when called, like always, and Sherlock tried not to compare him to a bloodhound in the way he seems to smell Sherlock’s hand at work because that was just one step too close to comparing the brainless many to animals under his command. He would have been a wonderful supervillain if he could have mustered up the effort to enjoy such machinations. On the other hand, perhaps he’d been watching too many of Rosie and John’s movies in a fruitless bid to stave off boredom. He said as much to John and John smirked, a carefree upward tilt of the lips that told of hidden amusement, before he spoke. “Well, let’s go home and watch another. I could do with a cup of tea.” 


End file.
